Pat emailed me today. She hasn't done that since her husband Alistair died. It's been a year since my good friend from Carlisle passed on. What do - should - I write about someone who had been a major part of my life in the faraway boonies of the English Lake District, a land of spectacular landscapes, where the grass is greener than green and every turn a postcard-perfect rendition of nature?
I would always recall with fondness the stunning landscapes of Penrith, Borrowdale, Keswick; but even those could not hold a candle to memories of my friend Alistair, as wicked as his humour was. He would probably have been 60 this year. A self-taught historian and guide at the Carlisle cathedral, his jokes about the local verger and keen appreciation for anything historical (and everything is historical) was what made him, well, great to be with.
Alistair took it upon himself to "educate" me on English and Scottish history. So began the field trips and meals and fireplace conversations that lasted almost 3 years. Thanks to him, I saw the site of the Lockerbie crash, visited obscure and quaint villages, learnt about chieftains and clans and their castles, manors, homes. Buildings and places came alive with their past glories narrated by a learned student... and such was Alistair Davidson, son of the (obviously) Davidson clan. Being with Alistair meant I learnt about different pleats, tartan and crest designs, suits for the infantry throughout the years and you've guessed it... he is an avid modeler. Which means he knew about weapon and artillery designs say... from the medieval era till WW2.
(In return, he got healthy doses of Asian cultural indiosyncrasies and great helpings of Asian food.)
More important than merely being a student of history is the skill of interpretation that makes sense of the present and hopefully, the future. Alistair and I used to have long discourses on God - the sovereign Architect of history. We diverged at the point of being born again.
One cold, unforgiving winter's day, we went fly fishing at the creek. The waters were deep in the countryside so we hadda cross over a farm and walk alongside the fences. All of us (Alistair, Pat, their grandkids Iesha and Angus, and I) were warm inside our windbreakers though the windchill factor was below humane. Alistair cast his line and waited. I did the same and the hook caught my jacket, tearing the fabric in a merciless tow. Great. Wind meets skin. Mine.
Some luck-less hours later, we decided the fish were either:
1. Hibernating or
2. Moved to colder Trans-Atlantic waters to hibernate
So we trudged home, each thinking happy thoughts which included Pat's awesome Yorkshire puddings. At a stopover at the farm, Iesha and Angus patted the pony behind me, which had the snuffles (Later I found out the animal was chewing at the tear in my jacket.)
We arrived home empty handed, but all the more richer for the great company. That turned out to be Alistair's last fishing trip with me. His body was too weak to accommodate another.
Do I miss my friend? Terribly so. Will I see him again? I am not sure. And sometimes I wonder if there was more I could have done for him.
Ah! This side of eternity and all its unanswered questions!
